The Fairfax County I-95 Landfill in Lorton, Virginia is at the corner of Furnace Road and Mordor Drive. It used to be Landfill Access Road but then somebody decided to do the first cool thing in Virginia since Thomas Jefferson was alive and renamed it after Hell.

Anyway, I made two trips down there today with all the gravel my Honda CRV could contain and still have room for my kids. The CRV was for a brief time a low-rider. I felt its pain.

Long story short, three years ago we bought this house with an above-ground pool. At the time we had two young kids and didn’t feel like assuming they had drowned anytime we couldn’t see or hear them. We told the previous owners to get rid of it before we moved in and they did. The cubic yards of decorative rocks and gravel?

Not so much.

That first year I wheelbarrowed all of it into a pile against the fence figuring “Hey, maybe someday we can use this to landscape a garden or something.”

Not so much. The kids would throw it at each other or pretend it was food if they were playing kitchen. I’d periodically clip one with the lawnmower if the kids had been especially active and my vigilance was lax.

Anyway, today my wife did National Bike to Work Day and I wanted to join her in muscle strain solidarity. She biked for over three hours cumulative and I moved almost a half-ton of rock out of the yard, piecemeal.

The difference is Monday she’ll be back in her car and I’ll still have another 1000 pounds of rock awaiting my attention.

I wonder if I could sell it on Craigslist…

Jealous?

This story was one of my favorites. A mighty swamp zombie named Solomon Grundy is taught evil by a gang of hoboes. The original Green Lantern goes after him only to learn the hard way that his magic ring doesn’t work on Grundy.

No matter. GL rises from his gurney, determined to take him on mano a monster because that’s what you do even when your magic ring craps out.

Here’s the original 1940s comic and the 70s reprint I bought at the Drug Fair.

Would you try this if your magic ring didn't work?

70s comics covers weren't allowed to be nearly as scary as the 40s. I still have this comic.

Generic Crime Fiction author dustjacket photo. Reasonable rates! Call now!

A blog a day, some of them are gonna be more substantial than others.

Sorry. New comics to read.

I know there are people out there doing great and noble work. I’m married to one of them. There are aspiring asteroid miners, cure seekers, artists and thinkers of profound skill. I need those to tip the scales against the bastard children of Cthulhu and Jerry Springer who are swarming the public square.

It’s gone beyond the cliche of being governed by the jerks you went to high school with. The jerks are losing primary challenges to the crazy people who used to live behind the liquor store.

We got trouble in River City.

Dick Cheney's too librul! We need a real conservative like the dog who lives in my pancreas!

I’m going to post some damn thing here every day, both to get back in the habit of creating rather than just re-posting and to justify the small expense per year it costs to maintain the domain. Mainly on the plain.

Things that will no doubt inspire are the kids, the goofier gigs being worked or just auditioned for, and the spectre of GOP local and national dominance here in the barnyard rape camp that once produced Thomas Jefferson.

I also like comics, movies and TV. Music too. Theatre would be nice but that involves money and free time. Sometimes I can afford to do a little but that’s it for me and the boards lately.

I’m going to update this site with new pictures, a bio update and… a game?
Maybe Space Invaders with my headshots as the aliens. Just something to pass the time.

Maybe link to my YouTube channel and put stuff up there?  Who knows?

I’ve always enjoyed the most success when I’ve made work rather than waiting for it to come to me. So, we’ll do that.

I think I shall also make this blog something on which people must write to me in order to be registered users. My anti-spam stuff is tight but some marketers seem to have found computer literate slaves who will actually type out captchas on the off chance I might want boner pills or a home tanning system. So write to me and tell me you’re not a robot or a slave or a slave robot.

And if you are a slave robot go work the other side of the street, pal. This is my territory.

Here’s what I really look like sometimes.

A thing from the 90s, full of hot air. Also, a balloon.

"John" in Arabic. Or possibly Hebrew. What's the damn difference?

"Johnny Guliani" after a looong murder mystery. I left after four hours. It may still be going on.

My family and I embarked yesterday on a week long vacation to Florida, our second in as many years. The primary motivator is the presence of my wife’s paternal grandmother, one of a diminishing number of that generation of our families. Simply put, you never know when you won’t get to to see her again so you go when you can.

I am told she’s thrilled to be seeing us.

We’ll also be seeing a few other aunts, uncles and in-laws as time allows. Somewhere in all this we’ll take the kids to one of the attractions in the area. One I’m told is devoted to the works of a major movie studio. The other has a mouse.

Since even the cheap entertainment here looks like a McDonald’s play area on acid we may just do the mini golf course that looks like a volcano. We just got here today so who knows what else there is to do?

Our trip down here was broken into two parts: Northern VA to Savannah. Hotel break. Savannah to here. Much easier than last year’s 20-hour straight drive of death.

The Bahama Bay Resort in Citrus Ridge, FL is very nice and a steal for what we’re paying per night. It’s got lots of pools and kids play areas and the rooms we’ve got are posh. The only negative is the wireless dead zone around our building. I’m typing this in the main building, about a five minute walk from our place. So far so good, but it definitely changes my rhythm. If I want to post anything or just surf I’ve got to set aside some time and risk physical contact with others. Ew…

Speaking of others, this appears to be a popular spot with vacationers from the British Isles. There are so many Limeys here it’s like I’m vacationing in London and Florida simultaneously.

Hey, who’s Southern Man’s favorite author?

“Tom Klancy.”

Goodnight.

I’ll let you know how many hits I get.

I am the caucasian gentleman.

It appears that’s what it takes to make me happy.

To loved ones and role models who didn’t make it this far: I wish you could know how much you’re missed. I’ll do my best to deserve the life and inspiration you gave me.

Leaving the grid til tomorrow/next year. Hope to see the rest of you there.

Happy New Year.

At the most basic level winter is cold and cold weather kills off anything that might otherwise be lingering on.

(Except for squirrels, dandelions and morons. They’re immortal.)

My point is, it seems very natural to equate winter and its holidays with death.

And I know there are parts of the world where December is balmy but who can account for such places anyway?

Still, in recent days I’ve been met with the obituaries of Christopher Hitchens, Vaclev Havel, Joe Simon, Kim Jong Il and, for a few minutes, Jon Bon Jovi who quickly recovered.

I also learned Friday night of the suicide six years ago of a college friend I used to act with. Obviously we’d lost touch, but this is now the second person with whom I was once good friends who chose to leave early.

These are notches I’d prefer not to cut.

I’m otherwise having a great season, working a lot and enjoying the matchless good fortune of having a healthy family and no bad stuff near the horizon.

I don’t really know why I’m posting this except maybe to offer the idea that the holidays don’t need to be so bad if you don’t go in expecting them to be perfect, by your standards or anyone else’s.

Suck it, Martha Stewart.

Last thought:

When I really began to consciously part from the seasonal myths I’d been raised with I realized that, for all the satisfaction I took from being grown-up and done kidding myself, I still could feel a pang at the pretty trappings of lights and song and once a year food. The person I’d become was the sole surviving heir to the kid who’d once sung carols and been an archangel in the Christmas play. It was embarrassing, but also reassuring that I hadn’t become completely unsentimental.

Sometime between then and now a guy once asked me if I’d rather be happy or right.

I picked at that one for a long time until I realized there was no reason I couldn’t be both.

Happy holidays.

Wishing you Jack for the holidays!